“Last time I was there the company was a whole lot cuter.”

“But nowhere near this informative, baby. Good luck.”

The Grill bustles pleasantly at dinnertime. During lunch it roars, filling up with Industry testosterone, every power booth occupied by movers and shakers and those too rich to bother doing either. Each bar stool is occupied but no one gets drunk. Platters of food are transported smoothly by an army of white-jacketed waiters who’ve seen it all. Sometimes tourists and others naive enough to venture in without a reservation bunch up at the door like immigrants seeking asylum. A trio of hosts seems genuinely remorseful when they reject the unschooled.

My hiking duds were far below the sartorial standard but you’d never know it from the smile of the woman behind the lectern. “May I help you?”

“I’m meeting Brent Dorf.”

“Certainly.” She beckoned a waiter with an eyebrow lift and he led me to a table on the south side of the restaurant, concealed by the center partition.

Far from the see-and-be-seen; Brent’s clout was beta.

He was hunched over a Caesar salad, forking quickly as if he needed to be somewhere else yesterday. When he saw me, he didn’t stop eating. A millimeter of white wine remained in his glass.

The waiter said, “Cocktail? Or Chardonnay like Mr. Dorf?” and handed me a menu.

I said, “Iced tea’s fine. I’ll also have a Caesar.”

“No croutons, dressing on the side, like Mr. Dorf?”

“Dressing and croutons are fine. Anchovies, too.”

The waiter smiled approvingly, as if someone finally had the sense to do it right.

Brent said, “Lay on the calories and the sodium, easy for you skinny folk.”

He was thinner than me, had the wrinkles and sunken cheeks to show for it. His head was shaved, his oblong hound-dog face had been barbered so closely that I wondered about electrolysis. Last time I’d seen him he’d been thirty pounds heavier and sported a soul patch.

I said, “You’re not exactly obese, Brent.”

“Good tailoring, you don’t want to see me naked.” He looked at the ramekin of salad dressing at his right elbow, considered his options, pushed it away. “I’m under pressure, my friend.”

“Tough job.”

“Not that pressure, body pressure.”

“Honestly, you look good, Brent.”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s relative,” he said. “Got myself a twenty-eight-year-old dancer with statue-of-David definition, I’m talking physical perfection.” He sighed. “Todd claims he loves me but we both know he’s out for the good life. By both of us, I don’t mean him and me, I mean you and me. Seeing as you’re a mental health sage.”

My tea came.

Brent said, “How’s your gorgeous other?”

“Terrific.”

“Robin, Robin,” he said. “I always thought she was special. A knockout who knows how to use power tools? Sexy.”

“No argument, Brent.”